


A Guiding Hand

by fishpoets



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Introspection, Light Angst, and a good man, but uplifting? i think, complicated family relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:28:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21812956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: “So you think father's spirit intervened to help you in your moment of need?”“I don't know.”Genji hummed. “It isn't impossible.”No, not impossible. But if their father had seen fit to help his eldest son this day, why had he never chosen to do so previously? It had been over a decade since he passed. Why now? Why not ever before?Where had he been when Hanzo needed him?
Relationships: Genji Shimada & Hanzo Shimada, Genji Shimada & Hanzo Shimada & Sojiro Shimada
Comments: 5
Kudos: 71





	A Guiding Hand

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to write something about the scraps of Cookbook Lore™ ever since they came out, and then the reveal of Sojiro's Guidance gave me all the fuel i needed to feed the creature that lurks in my thoughts at all times, thirsting for Shimada family content
> 
> featuring a bunch of my headcanons, because god knows we have nothing else to work with
> 
> enjoy!

Hanzo rolled out of his leap and ducked down behind the corner of the roof, lungs burning as they heaved for air.

That was close. Too close.

The bloody gash on his thigh was stinging. He reached down to assess the extent of the wound and winced. It was skin-deep, only grazing the muscle, but unacceptable nonetheless. Sloppy, he chided himself, teeth gritted against the bite of pain. He'd overused the dragons, let them drain him and exhausted himself; _sloppy_ , an amateur's mistake. What would father think? Surely he would be disappointed to look at him.

He exhaled a last shuddering breath through his teeth and forced his racing heart to calm. It didn't matter what father would think.

Father was long dead.

Hanzo was alive.

He was determined to ensure he and his new comrades remained that way.

Despite fleeing in a desperate scramble he'd hidden himself well; the enemy hadn't noticed his new perch but he could still see where they were gathering reinforcements in the next courtyard over, behind the curve of the building. He shot out a sonic arrow into the arch of the gate to be sure of their numbers.

There weren't enough arrows left in his quiver for all of them. That mattered not. He refused to back down. Refused to fail.

Exhausted he may be, but he could still fight. No enemy would be crossing this point on his watch.

He gathered his strength, hardened his resolve; notched another arrow, aimed, drew back the string and waited –

– and fired as the first enemy crossed into his sights. With motions borne of years of practice streamlined into pure muscle memory he reached back for the next arrow, notched and drew – then paused, as his brain registered what his eyes were seeing.

It was the strangest thing. The arrow had... _moved_. Ricocheted, from the first target to the next. A single ricochet wasn't unheard of, but then the arrow did the same again, and again, and again, jumping from enemy to enemy until all of them had fallen. Like it had taken on a life of its own.

Hanzo hadn't fired a scatter arrow by mistake, had he? He had retired them from use since he joined Overwatch, when he started working in a group – there was too much margin for error with them, too much risk of friendly fire. Had there been a leftover scatter arrow mixed in with this batch...? No, surely not. The movement of this arrow was different from his scatter arrows too: it remained as one projectile, seeking one target before the next, not breaking apart to seek several all at once.

And it was nothing like his storm arrows. It hadn't been the dragons. They lay still within him, sated from their feed, pulling on his life force to recover their spent strength.

The red silhouettes of the Talon-funded mercenaries in the field of the sonic arrow had all fallen still. Even those who had been hidden around the corners of the buildings, beyond his reach. And he didn't feel any more drained or exhausted than before.

Slowly, cautiously, Hanzo lowered his bow. The quiet breeze stirred his hair. Frowning, he puzzled over what he had witnessed. Was his mind inventing things?

He could have sworn...

A sudden crackle from his comm startled him.

{Hanzo, come in. Status report.} Winston's gruff voice reminded him of reality.

“Ah, yes, I – yes, Hanzo speaking.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “The point is secure; all foes neutralised. The way is clear for the payload.”

{Great. We've got everything under control on our end too, we'll be with you soon. Good work.}

“Copy.” Hanzo leant back, bracing himself against the wall. He held his bow loosely at attention, ready to spring into action at an instant's notice should it prove necessary – but for a moment, in the quiet between storms of action, he found himself wondering.

For a minute then... he could have sworn there scent passed him by on the breeze.

A familiar scent, rich with nostalgia; the fragrant smoke of expensive cigarettes, the warmth of oaky cologne, the faintest astringent tang of metal and ozone. And for a moment then he could have sworn there was a whisper of sensation upon his clothed shoulder; his skin shivered with a rush of goosebumps, as though someone had briefly, feather light, rested their hand there, or hovered it above him – not touching directly, but close enough to feel the ghost of touch.

And in the split second before the blare of his comm he could have sworn...

The deep hum of a baritone, echoing from far away, as if hearing it raised through several wood and paper walls. A voice so like his own yet so different. The voice he'd trailed after since childhood.

Even had he long enough to listen he could not have made out the words.

_Good work, Hanzo. Good work, my son._

No, he could only have imagined it.

* * *

The feeling couldn't be shaken.

He found himself thinking about it on the journey back to the Watchpoint. He thought about it through debriefing, through getting his leg healed and bandaged, thought about it through team dinner, thought about it through his evening wind-down training.

The thoughts followed him into a sleepless night.

He jolted alert again at some dark hour in the middle of the night. Whatever dream had woken him had already fled, its mirage fading into obscurity. Old ghosts he'd never been able to free himself from.

He'd been so preoccupied at dinner he had neglected to eat enough, and the demands of his body were now making themselves known. His dour mood had given him an itch for something warm and comforting, something that reminded him of home. Or rather, the idea of a home – a home he had wanted, that he'd once believed he had, though it had mostly been an illusion.

There was still leftover rice from earlier in the cooker. Hanzo heated up a bowl of it in the microwave, and stood there, watching the bowl slowly spin around, the kitchen lit only by the golden glow through the microwave's door.

The machine dinged loud in the 3am silence, but not loud enough to mask the quiet footsteps creeping up behind him as he was taking out the bowl.

“Boo!”

Metal hands clapped down on his shoulders.

Hanzo shrugged them off. “Hello, Genji.”

“Oi, nii-chan, what're you doing creeping around in the dark?”

Hanzo closed his eyes, sighed, and sharply cracked a fresh egg open over the steaming rice. “What does it look like I'm doing.”

He really wasn't in any mood to be pestered or teased, especially not by his brother. If both of them were in a good mood they could get on quite well; Hanzo clung to those occasions with both hands tight. They assured him that things were improving, that progress was being made. When one or both of them wasn't in a good mood, however... They were both reactive, temperamental people, and sometimes even the most innocuous-seeming things could set off an argument. Nerves frayed and on edge as he was Hanzo couldn't guarantee he'd be able to keep his temper, and he didn't want to – he really didn't want –

He didn't want to argue.

He didn't think he could handle it, not now.

And yet... he didn't want to send Genji away, either, nor to walk away himself.

“What are you making?” Genji muscled his way into Hanzo's space and peered over his shoulder. “Eh? Tamago gohan? I didn't know you liked this.”

Hanzo elbowed him aside. “What isn't to like?”

Genji shrugged. “Don't ask me. It's just cheap! Used to be you wouldn't be caught dead eating peasant food.”

Hanzo scoffed under his breath and rolled his eyes. He knew he shouldn't rise to Genji's goading, but... “Many things have changed over the years,” he said, and started whisking the egg into the rice with his chopsticks with a practiced hand.

Genji leaned against the counter and watched him. He wasn't wearing his visor; if Hanzo were to look up at them his eyes would no doubt be sharp and calculating. Assessing him.

It was obvious he knew something was bothering Hanzo. Would he push?

“That's true,” Genji finally said, lightly.

Hanzo started breathing easy again. _Stay calm._ “Besides, the chefs were the ones in charge of our meals, not me,” he continued, aiming for the same casual tone as Genji, though he did not quite manage it.

Genji seemed willing for once to play along. “Do you remember that high-protein diet our trainers put us on after the dragons manifested? Bleh!” He pulled a digusted face. “So boring! Even I was getting sick of pork by the end of it.”

“Mn.” Hanzo hadn't been fond of it either, though he had made less of a fuss than Genji. Sweets had been off the menu, after all. “It was necessary. Important for maintaining our bone density.”

“Yeah yeah, I know. ...Hey, make a bowl for me too?”

“Here's the eggs, the rice is over there. Make it yourself.”

“Rude!”

“I'm putting green onion on mine; do you want me to cut you some?”

“Mn, please.”

Hanzo set about chopping the green onions as Genji hunted out the soy sauce from the mountain of condiment bottles in the cabinet. He swapped half the onion for the sauce, and they stood side by side, mixing their bowls to their individual tastes.

Hanzo's eyes drifted shut at the first mouthful. He let out a satisfied hum. Simple though it was the food was undeniably good, warm and comforting and fluffy-soft in his mouth. Though it was lacking a little something. “We need to get some proper furikake next time one of us goes to the Asian market.”

“And some wasabi! It needs some spice...”

“McCree has some chili oil he keeps in the fridge.”

Genji snapped his fingers. “Right!”

His brother found the oil then made himself useful brewing some tea for them both – “I invented this brew myself, when I was staying with the Shambali,” – and they settled in at the table with their meal.

They managed to eat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Genji's patience ran out.

“Hey, brother. Are you feeling alright?”

Hanzo stared at him a moment before dropping his gaze to his food. He tipped a couple more drops of soy sauce over his bowl and swirled it in. “I'm fine.”

“Uh-huh. Right. Which is why you were making comfort food in the middle of the night. In the dark. And why you were spacing out all evening.”

Hanzo poked at his rice and considered how to put it into words.

This was hazardous territory to broach. Risky and volatile. And yet, if there was one single other person in the world who could possibly understand, it would be Genji.

“Something... strange, occurred on the mission today,” he admitted.

Genji paused, and lowered his chopsticks to the table. “Strange? Strange how?”

Haltingly, Hanzo described to him what had happened. The bizarre movement of the arrow, inexplicable by any rules of physics.

“I attempted to replicate it in the training room after dinner, but I could not. No matter what I tried.”

“And it wasn't the dragons?”

“No. They assured not; I have no reason not to believe them.”

“Huh.” Genji propped his chin in his hand and drummed his fingers. “You're right, that is strange.”

“And there was something else. A... I can only call it a presence.”

Genji's fingers stilled. He sat up, alert. To anyone else such a claim would have sounded ridiculous, foolish, but the Shimadas were superstitious by necessity. Genji believed him without a doubt. “A spirit? Did it seem benign?”

“I believe so.” Hanzo drew in a breath, and finally gave voice to the thought that had plagued him all the hours since it happened. “It felt like father.”

His brother froze. “Don't joke about a thing like that,” he said sternly.

“Do I _seem_ like I'm joking?” Hanzo snapped back. “ _Would_ I joke?”

Genji's shoulders slumped. “No, of course not, I apologise. I just wasn't expecting...” He touched his fingers to his scarred, furrowed brow. “You are sure?”

“As sure as one can be, with such matters.”

“So not at all.”

“I do not know what else to tell you, Genji,” Hanzo sighed. “I only know what I experienced. It smelled like him, I thought I heard his voice, and the aura it had, it just – felt like him. I don't know.”

“So... you think father, or father's spirit, intervened to help you in your moment of need?”

“I don't know.”

Genji hummed. They sat in silent contemplation of the concept for a few minutes before he ventured, “It isn't impossible.”

“...Hm.”

No, not impossible. But if their father had seen fit to help his eldest son this day, why had he never chosen to do so previously? It had been over a decade since he passed. Why now? Why not ever before?

Where had he been when Hanzo needed him?

“It has been several years since I last visited him and mother,” he said. “I was thinking it was time that changed. Will you join me?”

Genji answered without hesitation. “Yes, I'll join you. Of course. I'll gladly come.”

* * *

Hanamura was a far safer place for the two of them now that the last remnants of the Shimadagumi had been driven from the area. A few of their more treacherous relatives were still alive; they had gone to ground, hidden away like roaches, and would likely emerge to make a nuisance of themselves eventually, but for now Hanzo and Genji could walk open and carefree through the streets of their hometown in a way they hadn't been able to in years.

They took their time retracing childhood routes through the familiar streets. Hanzo's chest itched with nostalgia, a strange kind of subtle melancholy. He had missed his home, dearly, and yet... so many things had changed since he had last walked this path. The past was gone; forever out of reach.

Though as much as was different had also stayed the same. Genji let out a crow of delight when he noticed a brightly coloured storefront they both knew well. It was an old family sweet store, famous (at least to the young Shimada brothers) for their delicious daifuku. It seemed that had not changed – though now it was managed by the granddaughter of the old vendor who ran the store when they were children.

“Hmm... should I have the ichigo daifuku? They're so cute. Or should I try something new?” Genji looked up from the display of soft round mochi balls with whole strawberries pressed into their centres and grinned charmingly at the salesgirl. “I don't suppose you have any watermelon ones in stock?”

Her smile was regretful. “I'm sorry sir, not at the moment. We will be introducing them in a few weeks, in time for summer.”

“That's okay! Don't worry about it. I'll have one coffee flavour aaand... one ume, please!” He nudged Hanzo. “Brother, you like the sakuramochi, don't you?”

“Mn.”

“Two of those as well then, thank you!”

The salesgirl smiled at them as she was carefully packing their daifuku. “The two of you are brothers, huh? Are you new in town? I don't think I've seen your faces around here before.”

“Not new, no. We've just been, ah...” Genji glanced at Hanzo. “...away, for a long time. Years, in fact.”

“Oh? Such a long time? What brings you back?”

“Family business,” Hanzo said.

The girl paused at his short tone and glanced back at Genji, who smiled reassuringly. “It's a little difficult to talk about,” he explained. “But it is good to be home, right brother? And to meet such lovely new people, of course!” He winked at the girl, who laughed knowingly and shooed him away, though she was a little pink in the cheeks.

* * *

“Did you have to flirt with her?”

“It's called being friendly. Besides, ” Genji held up their treats, “I got us two extra, didn't I? You're welcome by the way.”

“I paid for them.”

“And you got more for your money thanks to me.”

“On this one occasion. Yet I wonder, why am I always the one who ends up paying?”

“It's your older-brother instincts kicking in, obviously.”

“What instincts?”

“You know! The need to provide!”

“Hn. Sounds fake."

Genji chuckled. "Do you remember that time you snuck me out to get sweets, when I was grounded after my terrible piano recital?”

“Your first and only piano recital,” Hanzo hummed, knowingly. “Yes, I remember. Homura-san caught us as we were smuggling them in over the wall. We each had to run twenty extra laps the next morning.”

Genji's chuckle rose to a bark of laughter that echoed through the gently swaying pines. “But the sweets were good, right? It was totally worth it!”

Hanzo smiled at the memory. _Yes, perhaps it was_.

The Shimada family had their own private burial plot in a quiet corner of the estate, overlooking the grounds of the castle. Neat rows of silent stone markers, generations of their ancestors spanning back hundreds of years.

Near the back of the plot, on a slope beneath a maple tree, was the stone marker that held the ashes of their father, and an empty urn for their mother.

The brothers knelt on the grass before the grave. Together they cleaned off the small amount of moss and dirt that had gathered in the grooves of the stone, and cleared up the leaves around it. Then they each lit a stick of incense and placed it in the holder.

“Hey mom, hey dad.” Genji shifted so he was sitting cross-legged. “Sorry, it's been a while. But look who also came this time!”

He patted Hanzo's shoulder. Hanzo lowered his head. Now they were here he did not know what to say.

Genji filled the silence telling their parents an abridged version of everything that had happened to them in the past year. Hanzo sat quietly, only making occasional interjections, until Genji ran out of stories.

His brother leaned into his side. “We've come all this way; are you not going to ask..?”

Hanzo shook his head. “I must have been mistaken,” he said. “Imagining things. Why would– It does not make sense–”

“Come on. Don't make excuses.”

Hanzo grit his teeth against a surge of irritation, but it dissipated as swiftly as it had come. His brother was right; he was stalling. He let out a long sigh. “Before I let that arrow fly... I had been thinking of him. Of father. I wondered what he would make of what I have become.”

“I have wondered the same thing, sometimes,” Genji mused. “What _would_ he make of us, do you think?”

“It is hard to say who he'd be more disappointed by,” Hanzo said wryly. “You know none of this is what he wanted, for either of us.”

Genji hummed a long note that fell in the middle, then rose. An acknowledgement, not an agreement.

“You disagree?”

“I think... it is more complicated than that,” Genji said slowly. ”Our upbringing was... not conventional, to put it mildly. Privileged in many ways and horribly oppressive in others. I won't even touch the ethical dilemma of raising children in an inherently violent situation. And our father was a difficult man to know; he kept a lot to himself. But I do know he loved his sons.”

Hanzo quietly scoffed. “You, maybe,” he muttered.

“Both of us,” Genji insisted, firm. “He may have showed it in different ways, and treated us differently, which was not fair. But he loved us both. He loved you, Hanzo, very much. You were the son he was proud of.” Hanzo was shaking his head but Genji barreled on. “Yes, it's true. He was always telling stories about you, did you know? He would start boasting about your achievements and your cleverness every chance he could get. Hanzo this, Hanzo that, blah blah.”

“He never said-”

“-To your face? Of course not, why would he?” Genji's words were dripping with sarcasm. “He wouldn't have wanted you to get big headed about it.”

“But you were the one who made him laugh,” Hanzo protested. “The one who made him happy. After mother disappeared–”

Genji sighed. He raised his knees and wrapped his arms around them, hugging them to his chest like he had as a child. “It's funny, you know,” he said. “I used to get really jealous. I always thought you were the favourite.” At Hanzo's incredulous look he added, “You were the one he spent his days with, the one he took seriously, the one whom he trusted with his work. He let me off light because it never really mattered what I did – or, at least, that's how it often felt. He didn't care enough to be strict because he had no real expectations for me.”

“Genji...” Hanzo was shocked; he had never heard his brother say such things. He'd had no idea...

“Don't worry about it, I don't think like that now. Or rather, I understand there was much more to it than that. At the time, however...” Genji shrugged.

Hanzo stared at him, at this person who was his little brother, who had been through such hardship and had suffered so much, and yet had grown so wise and insightful. Who had developed such an unbelievable, _humbling_ capacity for forgiveness.

At some point while they had been separated, he really had grown up. Become a remarkable man.

Perhaps their father would find something to be proud of in Genji, after all.

He looked back at the clean, pale stone, the kanji of their father's name still as crisp and sharp as the day it was engraved.

The same Shimada Sojiro who had bandaged Hanzo's skinned knees when he was seven had sent him out alone to kill another man when he was seventeen.

It was hard to reconcile: the doting father, who had told them fantastical, whimsical stories and played games with them on the floor as children, was the same man as the strict – almost overbearingly so – patriarch of the Shimadagumi, who was ruthless and decisive and brutally efficient, and held little tolerance for fools. Who held Hanzo up to the most exacting of his lofty standards, despite him being his child. Maybe because of it.

Had that been because he wanted the best for his firstborn son? That is how Hanzo had rationalised it at the time, even as he pretended to himself he was not envious of the more laid-back, affectionate relationship their father had with Genji. Genji was the only one to whom the rules did not seem to apply.

And yet Genji had also been stifled, albeit in a different way.

Their father had been raised in the same environment as them. The same surroundings of violence, the same duty, same weight of expectation. Sojiro had been their grandfather's second son; he came into leadership unexpectedly. Perhaps this was why he was more lenient with Genji – because he knew what it was like to see the future suddenly close shut before him. And why Hanzo's leash was never slackened – because his path was set in stone before he was even conceived. Perhaps his father thought it would be an unfairness, to allow him a taste of a freedom that would never be his to truly know.

Grief made no sense. It followed no rules of logic. The immediate aching sadness of the loss had faded; most days it did not pass Hanzo's mind. But then out of nowhere it would strike him once more, still potent even all these years later. That instinct was still there within him, rooted deep – to turn to his father, to ask for guidance, for advice. To ask questions. Frustration. Anger. Bitterness. They all dwelled in him. He would wake in the night, burning; _why did you treat us like you did? Were you trying to stifle us in an attempt to keep us safe? Did you simply not realise? Or was the business truly more important? Why couldn't you have been wholly terrible, a miserable snake like the rest of_ _our family, so I could simply cut these ties and walk away? Did you really think I was happy?_

_Why do I still miss you? Why did you have to die?_

If he had not died, would they all still be trapped in that castle?

So many questions, all with answers he could never receive.

“Part of me wishes I could hate him,” he admitted, hoarse, ashamed of the unfilial confession.

Genji nodded. “Trust me, I can empathise with the sentiment.”

Hanzo had the uncomfortable suspicion he was not referring only to their father. “And yet,” he continued, “the older I become, the better I feel I know him. Does that make any sense? I feel I can understand him in ways I could not when I was younger. Even when I would now disagree with his choices, I can understand why he made them. He raised two young children primarily by himself, in such a dangerous place, in such dangerous times. I would not have been strong enough to do so.”

“He did have an army of staff and bags of money,” Genji said aside. “That probably helped.” Hanzo huffed a short laugh.

“He tried his best.”

“Yes, I think so too. Yet, was his best good enough?”

Hanzo had their father's dark eyes, Genji their mothers's, the paler, clear colour of richly brewed green tea. They met for a moment of understanding, then looked away.

“I still loved him,” Hanzo whispered. “All I ever wanted was to make him proud.”

His voice cracked in the middle. His eyes were suddenly hot; he covered them with the palm of his hand.

“Yeah. I loved him too.” Genji's own steady hand came to rest between his shoulderblades. “Do you want to speak with him?” he asked. “Alone, I mean.”

“Don't you-”

“I've already had my rant at him. Told him all I needed him to hear.” Genji got to his feet and gently patted the curved top of the stone. “I'll say goodbye for now then, father. Mother.” He retrieved a small, speckled brown feather from his pocket and weighed it down with a pebble on the offering plate. Then he bowed his respects, and strolled away between the rows of graves.

Hanzo took the arrow he'd brought with him from his bag and spun it slowly between his fingers.

He held it out before the grave.

“Was it you?”

The stone remained silent.

Hanzo stayed still, waiting, but there was no change in the air, no chill upon his skin, no sound or scent on the breeze except for the incense, damp foliage and soil.

He raised his head. The branches of the maple tree above him were budding with fresh growth, pale green shoots bright as stars against the sky.

“I suppose it does not matter,” he murmured. “For the first time in a long time, maybe my whole life, I know who I am. Or who I am trying to be. I am sure that I am doing the right thing. I am not in need of your approval any more.

“I won't ask for forgiveness, father. Not now. Not from you. Nor will I demand any apology. But...” He drew in a deep breath. “I will say thank you. Wherever you are, I hope you are at peace. And I hope you are able to find some happiness for me.”

He bowed low to the earth. Then his bid his parents farewell, and pinched out the smoldering incense.

The arrow he left tucked against the pillar of the grave. After a moment of deliberation he left his extra sakuramochi, too, on the offering plate next to Genji's feather. A sweet tooth was a trait he and his father had shared.

He rejoined his brother at the edge of the graveyard.

“Genji.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.” When Genji tilted his head quizzically he added, “For coming with me.”

Genji ducked his head and smiled a small smile. “Thank you for the invitation. I am glad I came.” When he looked up again his eyes caught the light; the corners of them were slightly red. “This is something I think we both needed, yes?”

Hanzo hummed. He glanced back over his shoulder at the grave.

All that had happened, for good or bad, the immeasurable scale of such a legacy, and in the end it all came down to this: to a small, cold, simple stone, in a peaceful plot of land beneath a sprouting maple tree.

He still did not know how he should feel; about their childhood, or the man who had raised them. But he did feel lighter nonetheless.

His little brother's pointed elbow dug into his side. “Hey, you know what we should do?”

“What's that.”

“Rikimaru has a new Super Mega Spicy bowl – I saw the sign in their window. Care to test your iron tongue against my state-of-the-art cyborg stomach?”

Hanzo narrowed his eyes at him. “Only if you are prepared to face your defeat.”

He grinned as his brother burst out into raucous laughter.

* * *

  
  
The clear sun of early spring shone down on the pale stone, gleaming off the polished metal of the arrowhead. As the two brothers walked away side by side together, the quiet branches stirred in a fragrant breeze.


End file.
